


Stories of Illness

by SeverEstHolmes



Series: Heart and Music [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ilness, M/M, Sick Fic, Sickfic, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeverEstHolmes/pseuds/SeverEstHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not infallible, but he likes to think he is - particularly when it comes to his health; but it's not always possible for him to avoid getting ill...<br/>Oneshot, part 14 in the "Heart & Music" Series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories of Illness

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or anything else that the great ACD created. I also hold no rights over the BBC adaptations and additions of characters!

            This case had been rung through late; Lestrade had been dealing with the first incident by himself – but when the second body was found he appeared to feel out of his depth and therefore requested Sherlock's assistance. His phone call had been brief, requesting Sherlock's help and giving the address of where he could be found, finishing by imploring Sherlock to come as quickly as he could.

            The October air had a thick chill set into it, the approaching season of winter seemed to have decided to make itself present prematurely, and the breath of everyone out in the street was blowing out in great white puffs of steam from their mouths. Sherlock had yanked his coat and scarf around him and beckoned John to follow him out into the street, where he hailed a cab, giving the driver the address and climbed in. There was something not right though… Sherlock was always rejuvenated with nervous energy when he was given the promise of a fresh case that sounded interesting, but he was shuffling about in his seat in the taxi. He tugged at his scarf as though it was restricting air from getting into his lungs, then slid back the window of the cab allowing a sharp blast of cold air to flood into the taxi.

            "Are you alright Sherlock?" John asked, trying not to sound as though he was prying, or overly concerned – that would only piss Sherlock off.

            "Of course I am." He snapped waspishly, adjusting his scarf once more but making no real change to its position. "Lestrade could have given us a bit more notice before he wanted us to run to his aid, that's all."

            "Yes, if only Lestrade could prearrange with a murderer of whom he knows nothing about that they kill people on our timetable it would be heaven." John muttered under his breath, but he noticed that there wasn't the usual sarky Sherlock undertone in his quip about Lestrade. Out of the corner of his eye John tried to watch Sherlock; he was still fidgeting restlessly, first fiddling with his scarf, then with the top button of his coat and then with the sliding catch of the window. There was something not right, but asking about it again so close to his initial questioning would infuriate Sherlock. As the streetlamps rushed past the light deflected down inside the cab of the car – Sherlock's ivory skin was slightly flushed, his cheeks had a tinge of pink and there was even a barely visible sheen of perspiration upon his forehead.

            As the taxi drew up to the address that Lestrade had provided them with, Sherlock leapt out of the car almost before it had stopped moving. Sergeant Donovan was manning the outside of the three story house that they had drawn up outside of, and she wasted no time in making her presence known.

            "Lestrade's on the second floor, freak." She said. "Not sure you'll be able to help at all with this one." Sherlock completely ignored her, that was singular…      Sherlock  _always_ had to have the last word, even if it meant drawing out a personal comment, but he said nothing and ducked under the police tape and proceeded up the seven stairs which led to the front door of the house. The forensic team were milling about inside the tight hallway, all in plastic suits to prevent them from spreading any unwanted DNA into the crime scene.

            "Where's Lestrade?" John asked one of the suited up people, though he didn't take his eyes off of Sherlock. John had come to the medical conclusion that something wasn't right. Sherlock looked ill – he looked fevered, but Sherlock being Sherlock he wasn't going to admit if anything was wrong. He thought himself as superhuman and that nothing could affect his titanium constitution. We were directed to the third floor, in a top attic room Lestrade was standing outside the door. He demanded that everyone left the room before leading John and Sherlock inside.

            "Young male, we don't think this is his house, but he was strung up by the right ankle." Lestrade said. The young man had been cut down and was now lying on the floor – the frayed rope still attached round his ankle with purple-blue bruises spreading out from where it was tied like a bizarre pattern. The young man's face was down onto the carpeted floor – and all the blood had drained into his head, causing his face to be purple and red. Sherlock had bent down a foot from the body and John saw his eyes raking over every inch of the man, observing and forming links and conclusions like he normally did.

            "Twenty-one years old, part time painter and decorator, studying to be an architect at university." Sherlock reeled off, crouching right down onto his knees to get a look at the young mans' face. "He'd been at the gym within half an hour before being killed… He used to smoke, but has given up recently because he intends to ask his girlfriend to marry him and she doesn't approve." There was something slightly sluggish about the manner in which Sherlock was speaking; John noticed it because he lived with Sherlock but Lestrade seemed oblivious. "He's dead about two days." Sherlock said, as though this was an easy thing to pick up on, standing up from the side of the corpse.

            "It's suspected two days, yes." Lestrade nodded, looking rather flabbergasted at how readily Sherlock had pulled out a whole string of information just by looking at the dead man. "Any clues as to who we should be looking for?"

            There was an incredibly long silence – the length of it caused both John and Lestrade to turn and stare at Sherlock. Sherlock was pale – but not just the ivory colour that he usually was, he was a milky, deadish white with a red rouge flushed across his cheekbones. He swallowed visibly and then spoke:

            "You need to find out what gym he goes to…" Sherlock trailed off, his eyes were wide like he had just had a revelation and he suddenly turned on his heels and practically fled from the room. Lestrade looked at John with one eyebrow raised, they were both accustomed to Sherlock linking some bizarre fact and running off to chase it, but that was always accompanied by wild exclamations that generally insulted everyone and made no sense to anyone but Sherlock.

            "Is he alright? He looks a bit… odd." Lestrade asked, breaking the silence between the two of them.

            "He says he's alright, but I think he's ill…" John answered, "But the both of us know what Sherlock is like - he's not going to admit to anything until his leg falls off, or he passes out."

            "That's true." Lestrade nodded.

            "I should go and find him; I'll try and bring him back if he's just decided to go for a cigarette or something." John told him and headed towards the door.

            "Do me a favour – if you think he's ill, take him home. He's no use to me if he's ill and not thinking straight. Tell him to get better, then I'll get in touch."

            "Right, I will do. Thanks Greg." John pushed past the people still in the halfway and came face to face with Sergeant Donovan at the door. "Which way did Sherlock go?" John asked abruptly.

            "He's run off again –" She started, but John wasn't in the mood for her games.

            "I don't care as long as you tell me which way he went." John interrupted.

            "He turned that corner there. He looked a bit strange…" John was already rushing in the direction that she had pointed and didn't hear the end of her sentence.

            About one hundred yards from the front of the house that John had exited, there was a side alley which turned up in between the houses and two streetlights were throwing a dim yellow blur onto the path. Sherlock was standing halfway up this alley, leaning against the wall dependently; John noticed as he approached that about a foot further down from where Sherlock was leaning there was a pool of vomit. The clear evidence added to Sherlock's pale complexion, his erratic breathing and the fact he seemed to be struggling to remain upright, all added to the conclusion that John was right; Sherlock was ill.

            "Sherlock?" John said calmly as he approached him. "Sherlock, come on – I'm taking you home." He gripped Sherlock's upper arm so as to support him.

            "No… no, I have to go back – the case." Sherlock argued weakly, but he sounded as dreadful as he looked.

            "Lestrade says I've to take you home and you can call him when you're feeling better. I'm taking you home, you're in no fit state to be out." John commanded, Sherlock took a few shaky steps with the aid of John's arm for support. "Why didn't you say anything? You must have been feeling ill for a while."

            "I thought I'd eaten too quickly or something – it was just a stomach ache, I thought it would pass." He replied, seemingly gaining a little more strength and leaning less heavily on John. "I'll be fine, I promise – I feel better now. I can go back and see Lestrade now."

            "You look like you're running a temperature and you've just been sick, I doubt Lestrade would want you back into a crime scene that can't be contaminated. I'm taking you home." John insisted again.

            "Okay." Sherlock said very quietly, it wasn't worth arguing about… And he felt like he could really do with a seat, or his bed even.

            "Do you feel up to riding in a taxi? Or do you want to sit down for a bit?" John asked, despite Sherlock's loosened grip he could feel him trembling through the material of his coat.

            "I'll be fine in a taxi." Sherlock replied firmly.

            "Alright, but if you start to feel in the slightest bit sick, you tell me instantly, okay?" Sherlock nodded. "You promise?"

            "Yes." He said as John halted a passing taxi, and helping Sherlock inside, instructing the driver to take them to Baker Street. John could see that the driver was eyeing Sherlock suspiciously so he glared back at the guy and slid back the windows. Sherlock rested his head against the metal strip between the two windows and closing his eyes as the wind rushing through the open glass ruffled his hair. He raised his hand up to his face and wiped his brow. They were only a street away from Baker Street when Sherlock took a deep breath in.

            "Sherlock, you alright?" John asked, keeping his voice low so as to not alert the taxi driver that anything was wrong.

            "Yeah… Yeah…" Sherlock muttered, "Just – just a little queasy…"

            "We're just two seconds from home, just hold on." John said rather panicky just as the taxi turned into Baker Street. "Just here, thanks." John said to the driver, who pulled over to the side of the road. Sherlock practically flung himself out of the door while John paid the driver and latched himself onto the railings outside the main door of flat 221B. John unlocked the door with his key and then put his arm carefully around Sherlock's waist so he could support him inside. "God Sherlock, you should have told me earlier that you were feeling sick!" John said, slightly frustrated. "I could have done something to help before now…" Sherlock proceeded up the staircase rather unsteadily, holding tightly onto the handrail.

            "Sorry," Sherlock mumbled as they reached the top of the staircase.

            "Go into the sitting room, sit down and I'll get you some water." John said, pushing Sherlock slightly in the direction of the sitting room. John filled up a glass of water in the kitchen, but when he proceeded through to the sitting room Sherlock was not there. His coat and scarf lay discarded over the arm of the sofa, but there was no sign of their owner. He laid down the water and went in search of Sherlock; he found him in the small toilet on the same floor. "There you are." He sighed in some relief, wedging himself into the bathroom and crouching down so he was on the same level as Sherlock who was kneeling next to the toilet. "Are you still feeling nauseous?" Sherlock was sheet white with a hint of green now and he was swallowing rapidly, he nodded slightly as a reply. John stretched out his hand and placed it on Sherlock's forehead so as to ascertain his temperature; Sherlock squirmed away from John's cold hand. "You're running a high temperature, I think you've got a virus." Sherlock made a strangulated whimpering noise very unlike his usual self, and he instantly looked much younger than the thirty four year old he actually was. The hand that wasn't clinging onto the side of the toilet was rested on his abdomen.

            "Is there –" He tried to speak, but his voice was thin. "Anything I can do to make it better?"

            "I'm sorry Sherlock." John shook his head. "You'll just have to wait it out." Sherlock groaned; he was gulping even more now and John suspected he was fighting the urge to vomit again. "Don't fight it Sherlock, you might feel better if you just let it take its course." Sherlock tried to glare at John, but he just looked piteous. He heeded John's words, however, as the moment John saw him stop swallowing every second and took a deep breath, he jerked forwards and vomited. John felt suddenly awkward, he wasn't sure quite how to comfort Sherlock – being overly affectionate was rather abhorrent to Sherlock and John had no way of telling if that would change when he was ill. When Sherlock leant back he was trembling violently and he wiped his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve rather haphazardly. "I'll get you a change of clothes. Stay here until I get back." John dashed up the staircase and grabbed the first clothes he could find in Sherlock's room, but by the time he was retreating down the stairs he could hear Sherlock throwing up once more. For a split second he wondered whether he should phone for an ambulance, but he trusted his medical judgement – if Sherlock didn't improve in a couple of hours then he would call for an ambulance. "Here we go Sherlock, I've got something clean clothes for you… do you want any help getting changed?" Sherlock had propped himself up against the wall of the bathroom and he shook his head; even despite Sherlock's refusal for help John stood in the doorway of the bathroom as Sherlock undressed himself with shaky hands and pulled the t-shirt over his head.

            "I'm sorry." He uttered finally, his voice no stronger than it had been before.

            "Don't be sorry and don't be silly. I'm a doctor and I'm your friend." John replied firmly, bending down again. "Do you think you're feeling up to moving? You can lie down on the sofa in the sitting room."

            "Okay." He gripped the hand that John was proffering and clambered to his feet. He leant rather heavily on John as he was a little wobbly on his feet, but as they got out of the bathroom into the halfway he halted suddenly. "Dizzy…" He muttered, John doubled his grip on Sherlock just as the man went as limp as a rag doll. John was able, employing the strength he had gained from his time in the army, to scoop Sherlock up so he was carrying him. Sherlock was lighter than John had expected and it did not pose John any problems to carry him into the sitting room and lay him on the sofa. Sherlock stirred and opened his eyes blearily; John helped prop him up a bit and brought the glass of water to his lips.

            "Take a sip Sherlock; it should make you feel a bit better." John explained gently, helping him to take a drink. Sherlock lay back down once he had taken a drink, John searched around the room until he procured a waste paper bin which he placed at the edge of the sofa. "Use that bucket if you feel sick." Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement and let out a sigh. "If you're feeling a little better in a few hours I'll give you some paracetamol – I don't want to risk it just now in case you throw them up." John sat down in his armchair, positioning himself so he could see Sherlock in case of any emergency and allowed a silence to fill the room. Sherlock had closed his eyes, he was still a worrying colour and his temperature had not abated or broken yet, and he appeared to go to sleep.

            It was maybe half an hour or more later that Sherlock took to regain the ability of speech again.

            "John…?" His voice was slightly hoarse; John looked up instantly from the book he had picked up to read. "I didn't mean to – I… thank you…"

            "It's alright Sherlock. I wish you had told me earlier that you were feeling unwell; I  _am_ a doctor after all and you're not superhuman. But you need to rest now, let yourself heal."

            "No, but – I mean it, thank you." Sherlock repeated. "You've not looked after me because you're a doctor, you've done it because I'm your friend… and you're… you're my best friend."

            It was unusual for Sherlock to display this kind of outward emotion, but John didn't have the time to reply before Sherlock had closed his eyes and his breathing evened out until he fell asleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sick fics are now like my ultimate guilty pleasure- I might write a more established one after I'm finished with this series... I'd love to know what you think!


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